


Day of the Wren

by fannishliss



Series: Kink List [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Begging, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Catholic Steve Rogers, Experimental Style, Good Steve Rogers, Hydra torturing poor Bucky, Irish Steve, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve being super good, kink list, not always in the good way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begging didn't do him any good.  Bucky relearns how to choose and want and ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day of the Wren

**Author's Note:**

> The writing style is a little bit experimental in this story. I hope you will enjoy it.

  
**\- ~ i ~ -**  
  
“Please, please,” Bucky begged. The soldiers ignored him.  “I’m American,” Bucky said.  “Please.”  
  
They dragged him through the snow, leaving a trail of blood.  
  
He saw the stream of red he’d left behind, wondered what would eat his arm.  
  
A winter wren sang from the bushes, the last thing he heard before nothing.    
  
*  
  
“Please, oh god, oh god, please, I’m still awake!”  
  
The saw cut into his shoulder, far above the jagged remains of his arm.  Fire tore through him, but worse was the horror — they were taking too much — they were taking —    
  
“Please, god, nahhhh!”  
  
Nothing was left him but shredded screaming.  
  
*  
  
He dreamed of a wren in a snare, stunned by boys throwing stones.    
   
He was meat on a slab to them, screaming, begging, crying, pleading, bargaining, nothing affected them.     
  
Nothing.  
  
*  
  
“Name?”  
  
“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038.”  
  
That was all he had to tell them.  He knew the rules.    
  
Electricity lanced through his brain, convulsing his body — his teeth ground together — his hands gripped the chair — he pulled and fought and couldn’t get away — nothing remained but the lancing tornado of copper and fire —  nothing worked — nothing —  
  
“Name?”  
  
“… please… “  
  
Fire — too much light — copper wires tangled through his eyes, down his throat — arcing out through his arms —  
  
“Name?”  
  
nothing  
  
*  
  
Cold.  Dark.  Empty.  Stench of waste.  Sore.  He ran a dry tongue over shriveled lips.  
  
“Water? Please?”  
  
the darkness stretched eternally as he faded into nothing  
  
*  
  
“Name?”  
  
“…”  
  
“Purpose?”  
  
“the glory of HYDRA”  
  
A wet rag touched his lips, reeking of mildew. Desperate for moisture, he sucked at it.  
  
The rag was torn away. They poured fire into his mouth and acid dissolved his lips and tongue.  
  
Nothing to beg with.  No hope in trying.    
  
*  
  
“Eliminate the target.”  
  
The asset performed according to parameters.  
  
*  
  
“Where am I?” it asked, a few days out of cryo.  
  
The technician raised his eyebrows at the question, but didn’t answer.  
  
The cuffs, the biteguard, the fire.    
  
The ice.  
  
*  
  
“Bucky?’  
  
The man looked directly at the asset, stopped fighting, stood up straight and waited for an answer.     
  
The asset spoke without thinking, triggered by the eye contact, the way the target called it by a Name.  
  
“Who the hell is Bucky?”  
  
Horror clenched the asset like a vise. It had spoken.  It had not eliminated the target.  It would be wiped, or worse.  
  
It ran.    
  
They caught it, of course.    
  
*  
  
“The man on the bridge.  I knew him.”  
  
A bridge that spanned an ocean of fire. A devil whose head was raw flesh. An angel wearing a star. The angel loved Bucky.  Bucky wouldn’t go, _not without you_.    
  
“Erratic,” the technicians murmured.  “Too long out of cryo.”  
  
“Wipe him,” the Handler decreed.  
  
“But I knew him,” the asset whimpered, opened for the biteguard, bit down and protected the tongue.   The asset did not need a tongue.  
  
A stunned bird still might shiver awake and sing: who was the man? who was Bucky?  
  
The fire.  
  
*  
  
Steve didn’t make a sound as he plummeted down toward the river.  
  
Frozen in horror, the asset knew its purpose: _protect this man_ / _love him forever._  
  
Steve, on the river bank, was damaged but alive.   He cut himself free and headed into the bushes.  
  
Mission: Eliminate Hydra.  
  
*  
  
He saw the hope in their eyes and let them beg.  
  
He showed mercy by letting them die.  
  
*  
  
Was this all? the endless trail of blood?  
  
He knew there was more.  
  
There was Steve.    
  
  
**\- ~ ii ~ -**  
  
Steve came to meet him in the lobby of Stark Tower.  At his look, the plain clothes security stood down.  At his word, the elevator ascended and opened onto rooms.    
  
Steve introduced him to the rooms: kitchen (enormous, sparkling).  Dining (a wooden table.  wooden chairs.)  Media room (sprawling black leather couch. thick pile rug.  stacks of books on the coffee table.) Bathroom (walk in shower. giant tub.)  Master bedroom (very large bed.  tidy bathroom.  soap that smelled like Steve.)  Guest bedroom (hopeful clothes in the closet. Steve said: _all for you, Buck_.)  
  
Glass walls.  Wood floors. Light.  The view out over the City.  Quiet music when Steve asked Jarvis to play something.  
  
Music turned a key in his brain.  A moonlight serenade.  He knew this.  
  
Steve’s eyes grew bright.  He knew the pleading look of hope.  Should he strangle it, or let it suffer?  
  
He turned away.    
  
*  
  
Steve didn’t sleep much.  In the evening Steve sat in the media room on the big couch and read his books until well after midnight.  
  
He was welcome to join Steve.  Steve could get him different books if he _wanted_.  There was a tablet and Steve showed him how to order almost any book.    
  
He saw that Steve hoped he would read.  No need to stamp out such a seedling hope.    
  
Whatever book was on the top of the pile, he chose, and committed the information to memory.  
  
*  
  
Steve offered him _choices_.    
  
Always asking him what he would _prefer_ to eat and drink.  He’d gone years without a sip of water (HYDRA had access to his veins).  He’d gone decades without a bite of food (nutrition delivered by feeder tube).  He remembered the shimmery days of before: coffee, oatmeal, cabbage and potatoes.  A bright day at a fairground and a hotdog with mustard.    
  
Steve pulled a package out of his refrigerator, boiled some water, gave him a hotdog on a bun with spicy brown mustard, "the way you used to like it."  
  
It tasted like poison, too salty, bitter.  The asset’s shriveled stomach turned and chunks of hotdog and bile floated in the toilet.    
  
Steve told him to swish and spit, then led him back to the refrigerator.     
  
“How about one of these?” Steve asked, pulling out a box.  Inside the box were several small containers and Steve lined them up on the counter.    
  
There were pictures of fruit.  He was meant to _choose_.  
  
He pointed at the picture of a blackberry.  Steve pulled the foil off the top and handed him a spoon.    
  
The contents were slimy, slightly sour, very sweet, with pinkish gel at the bottom that was even sweeter.  The food stayed in his stomach. Steve smiled.  
  
*  
   
“Want to try the gym?” Steve asked.    
  
When he killed the hope in Steve’s eyes, he slept even rougher than usual.  He followed Steve to the gym and tested his strength against weights until Steve said they were done.  
  
He felt Steve’s eyes assessing his body.  He stood straighter, held still for the assessment.    
  
Steve frowned but said, “You’re looking better.”  
  
The frown made him ill at ease, but the words were reassuring.  
  
*  
  
“Want to come for a run?” Steve asked.  
  
He did not _want_ to leave the Tower, but killing Steve’s hope was like a knife to the gut.    
  
He went for the run, hyper alert: every gleam of light was a sniper’s sights, every shadow a lurking watcher, every glance their way made him need to hide.     
  
After the run, he tried to wash away the stench of fear that had poured out of him.  Was it worth it to see pride and contentment in Steve’s eyes?  
  
For Steve’s happy eyes, he would pay any price.  
  
*  
  
He was thirsty.  
  
He wanted a glass of water.  
  
Steve would not mind. Steve would not shatter the glass and make him roll on the shards, kick him in the stomach until he vomited the water, lock him away in a cold dark place until he faded into oblivion.  
  
Steve had taught him to remember thirst. Steve offered beverages like it was his favorite hobby, like he was listing the states and capitals: coffee, tea, soda, beer, juice, milk, water. Steve wanted him to _choose_.  Steve wanted him to _want_.    
  
The refrigerator had a little nozzle in the door, a convenient dispenser of cold filtered water.    
  
He could go get a glass and fill it and drink as much as he wanted.    
  
Steve would not mind.  
  
He was staring toward the kitchen when Steve looked up from his book.  
  
“Want something, Bucky?” Steve asked hopefully.    
  
Trembling, he nodded.  
  
Steve’s eyes lit up, as he’d predicted.  “What do you want?” Steve asked gently.  
  
“Water?” he whispered.  
  
Steve practically bounded to the kitchen and brought him back a glass of water, tried and failed to suppress his happy smile as he drained the glass.    
  
“Thank you,” he remembered to say.    
  
“You’re welcome,” Steve said earnestly.    
  
  
**\- ~ iii ~ -**  
  
There had always been blood on his hands: from the HYDRA agents he’d eliminated; the targets they’d assigned to the asset; enemy soldiers when he was a sniper in the war; blood on his knuckles when he defended Steve, blood he cleaned off Steve when he fought or fell.  
  
The trail of blood led to Bucky Barnes, a long red line, and there at the end, was Steve, waiting for him with hope in his eyes.    
  
Bucky wanted Steve’s hope to flutter free, a bird flying up into golden sunlight.  
  
*  
  
“I remember,” Bucky said.    
  
Steve closed his book and gave Bucky his full attention.  
  
“I remember something sweet your ma made. Oatmeal cream.”  It was Irish, and for special days: Saint Stephen’s Day, the fourth of July, Sarah and Joseph’s wedding anniversary.    
  
Steve’s eyes shone and a forest full of wrens sang out, a flock of doves wheeled overhead.  
  
“Oatmeal cream, yeah, Bucky.  We could make that.  It takes a day or two, though.”  
  
“We have a day or two.”  
  
Steve nodded.  “The Smithsonian gave me back some of our things.  I got Ma’s recipes in the kitchen.  You wanna look at it?”  
  
Bucky and Steve sat at the kitchen table while Steve paged through the old composition book, fat with added pages.  The front pages were handwritten, recipes inscribed by Sarah’s mother to remember her by in America.  Oatmeal cream was one of these recipes.  There were faded pencil sketches in the margins: bright-eyed wrens, beaks open, singing loudly.  
  
“Jarvis, take a grocery order please,” Steve said. “Can we get Irish steel cut oatmeal? a bitter Seville orange?  gelatine and heavy whipping cream?”  
  
“Of course, Captain,” the AI answered.  “The order is being placed.  Your groceries should arrive within 90 minutes.  Do you need anything else?”  
  
Steve looked at Bucky.  
  
“Is there anything you want?” Steve asked.  He always asked.    
  
Bucky took a deep breath, and let it go.  “There was fruit with it, wasn’t there?”  
  
“Yeah — whatever preserves Ma had on hand, she’d make into a sauce.  I know we have blackberry jam, raspberry, and strawberry.”  
  
The thought of the blackberry jam made Bucky’s mouth water.  “Blackberry,” he whispered.    
  
“That sounds so good,” Steve said.  “I’m so glad you remembered.  I haven’t had this since … Jesus … my birthday in 1941?”  
  
Bucky could remember the day — before the United States entered the war, before he’d been drafted, before he’d gone away and gotten captured the first time and Steve had gotten big and leapt across the inferno to save him from the devil.  
  
“Nothing else,” Bucky whispered, thinking of that day.  
  
~  
  
He remembered Stevie at their kitchen table, king for the day.  Bucky brought him his coffee, read him the paper (only the good parts), and fed him the oatmeal cream, spoon by spoon. He remembered Coney Island that day and the fireworks that night, a bottle of coca cola to settle Steve’s stomach, and the way they shared a few squares of Steve’s birthday Hershey bar, the whole world raising a ruckus and lighting up the sky on the day that Steve was born.    
  
He remembered the breeze through their windows, the noises of holiday revelers up and down Montague street, and them secret in their bed as he worshiped Stevie like he deserved. He was Steve’s perfect slave, nothing mattered to him but whatever Steve wanted, what made Steve feel good was Heaven and all God’s angels to Bucky.  He remembered Steve heavy and full in his mouth, tight and hot around his fingers.  He remembered, so gentle, taking Steve there in the home they made together, whispering hot in Steve’s ear how he loved him, Christ how he loved him so, and how perfectly they fit.  
  
He remembered.  
  
~  
  
“Steve,” Bucky said.    
  
Steve looked over.    
  
“I remember.”  
  
Steve frowned a little.    
  
“Yeah — Jarvis says it’ll take about an hour and a half for the delivery,” Steve reminded him.  
  
“I remember us,” Bucky said.    
  
Steve’s eyes flew wide.  Bucky could see the wren, wings tangled in string, struggling to fly.  
  
Bucky stood from his chair, and went to Steve, and knelt, and put Steve’s hand in his hair.  
  
Steve sat stock still, didn’t utter a sound, but his fingers stroked through Bucky’s hair, soothing his sensitive scalp.  
  
“I remember this,” Bucky said. “I want it, Steve. Please, oh please.”  
  
Bucky had forgotten how to _want_ , how to _ask_.  He’d given up begging: it had done more harm than good.  
  
But Steve, like with everything, gave it back to him.  
  
“So good, Bucky,” Steve murmured, at last, stroking his hair with both hands as Bucky rested his forehead on Steve’s hard thigh.  “So perfect, look at you, Jesus.”  
  
Bucky kissed at Steve’s leg and breathed.  
  
“Tell me, Stevie  — tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” Bucky swore.  
  
“Stand up then,” Steve said, so Bucky stood, but Steve stood too, and they were face to face.  
  
Steve lifted his hands and framed Bucky’s face, looking deep into his eyes.  
  
Bucky didn’t see the fragile hope.  The wren was free, the strings all cut. He saw only the fathomless depths of Steve’s love, blazing like a star, guiding him home from the darkness.  
  
“Tell me what you want,” Steve commanded.  
  
“I want you,” Bucky said, out loud. “I want us kissing, and touching, and naked, and fucking. I want you, Steve, like I’ve always wanted you.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Steve said.    
  
“Even when I had nothing,” Bucky said, “I knew there was something I needed — and it was you.”  
  
“God,” Steve said.  “Please tell me this is okay,” he said, tightly.  
  
“It’s okay,” Bucky said, obediently, and Steve was kissing him, oh, like he wanted.  
  
He wanted.  
  
Birds sang and stars shone and tomorrow would be a special day: the first day of the rest of their lives.  
  
Steve gave Bucky everything, and Bucky gave it back, and all their begging was sweet birds singing, wild and free and forever.  
 

**Author's Note:**

> Steve would probably observe St. Stephen's Day, December 26, because it is the day of his namesake.  
> In Ireland the day was called the Day of the Wren, and it was observed by hunting wrens. 
> 
> The dessert is called Donegal Oatmeal Cream, a traditional Irish dessert.
> 
> Please leave a comment of any kind letting me know what you thought. Your kudos and comments make it all worth it! :D
> 
> Next up : Biting and Bruises! (the kink list I have is so hardcore!)  
> Let me know if you have prompts for me, or if you have kinks to add to [the list](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3507143)! :D


End file.
